


Continental Drift

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Angst, F/M, LIKE A LOT OF ANGST, because there is a death and i am sorry about that, but it's kind of the impetus behind the story, maybe i should've mentioned that before, oh and also i have a reputation for killing my favorite characters, please heed the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 13:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3384101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  <b>Spoilers through "Uprising."</b> <i>It seems like it happens all at once -- cataclysm out of nowhere.</i>  What if Diggle and Felicity were right about working with Malcolm Merlyn? What if getting in bed with that monster is the first step to becoming him? Even unwittingly?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Continental Drift

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS to katelinnea, jomarchfwf, and youguysimserious for tolerating a character death story long enough to provide excellent beta work and feedback. Any remaining tense craziness is my own damn fault.
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Not my characters.

It seems like it happens all at once -- cataclysm out of nowhere.

But looking back with a hollow, deadened heart, Oliver can see the inevitability. He can see the slow, inexorable drift towards this… this _hell on earth_. He can see how each selfish, thoughtless decision he made brought them a step closer to this devastation. 

And now, standing over Ra’s al Ghul’s body, he’s saved his sister’s life -- but everything else lies in ruins.

& & &

Oliver thought it was a good plan.

Felicity disagreed. Vehemently. Diggle did, too, though he came around begrudgingly after a few arguments. 

Because as far as Oliver could tell, training with Malcolm Merlyn was the least bad option out of several. Because Ra’s was coming for him, probably sooner than any of them would like, and Oliver had gotten a very serious lesson on just how outmatched he was against Ra’s when he’d only been allowed a sword. He needed to get better quickly -- both physically to heal, and also to vastly improve his fighting abilities with swords.

He wanted Maseo or Tatsu to teach him, but they refused, so Malcolm was the next logical step. Because for once, he and Malcolm had something in common -- they wanted to protect Thea.

Still, Oliver had to swallow down his rage that Malcolm was the one who had orchestrated this, who’d put Thea in the crosshairs in the first place. He had to repress his rage that Malcolm had set things with the Queen’s Gambit in motion, that Malcolm had orchestrated the Undertaking, that Malcolm’s actions had killed Tommy, that Malcolm had _drugged his sister_ and used her to _kill Sara_.

It was a lot to overlook. (It was far too much to overlook -- he knows that with brutal clarity, now that it’s too late.)

And it had taken a Herculean effort to remain civil, to remain _in the same room_ as Malcolm Merlyn long enough to train.

(Later, he’ll regret bitterly the decisions he made to put all of that aside. Because the past was a crucial clue to what Oliver should have seen coming but didn’t. How the fuck did he not see his worst nightmare coming?)

The training had been brutal and frustrating for too many reasons, and since Felicity openly disapproved, Oliver had agreed to train in the loft and not in the foundry.

He’d also wanted to keep Malcolm Merlyn as far away from Felicity as possible.

God, if only that had ended up _mattering_.

But whatever had gone on while Oliver was healing from his first go-round with Ra’s? Whatever had transpired between Malcolm and Felicity? It had put her on Malcolm’s radar.

The rest -- it all started with a phone call.

& & &

The ringtone wakes him, and he’s instantly alert. Because it’s the “unknown caller” ringtone, the one that’s never a harbinger of anything good.

Neither is a 3:14 a.m. phone call.

Oliver is sitting upright in his bed, tense when he answers. “What?”

“It is Nyssa,” a familiar voice answers. “I have news.”

Oliver grits his teeth. He’s not really ready to face Ra’s again, yet, but it seems he may have run out of time to prepare. Goddammit. “Nyssa, I really don’t--’

“The Demon has your beloved.”

The world stops. 

Oliver is frozen in his bed, eyes wide, muscles rigid with panic. “What do you mean?” 

“Felicity Smoak, MIT Class of ‘09,” Nyssa answers, and the oddity of it, the strange formality tips the world over. 

His stomach lurches and he feels like he’s falling, like he’ll never stop falling. “What?”

“There’s a blood debt,” Nyssa answers. “You were to pay with your life, but you are not dead.”

“No,” he shouts, already out of bed and scrabbling for his clothes, the phone pressed painfully tight against his ear. “Nyssa, listen to me, you need to--”

“I need do nothing for you, Oliver Queen,” she retorts, her tone haughty again. “I shouldn’t have informed you, but my beloved had affection for Felicity Smoak and I wouldn’t wish to see harm come to her if there were another way.”

“There is,” he says desperately. It’s hard to pull his pants on with one hand but he yanks them up anyway, a little unsteady on his feet. “There’s another way. There’s me. I killed Sara. Ra’s should kill me instead. _Please_ , Nyssa, where is Felicity?”

He’s halfway down the stairs, shoes on, jeans not quite fastened, and a shirt in his hand. He hears movement behind him, whirls to find Thea looking sleepy at the top of the staircase

“Ollie?” she asks, brow furrowed. She descends quickly to join him by the door.

But Nyssa is talking again. “You did not kill Sara. Until you stop lying and produce the real killer, I cannot help you. Or your Felicity.”

“Nyssa--”

But she hangs up and Oliver is left staring helplessly at the phone in his hand. Why would Ra’s take Felicity? She’s not involved in Sara’s death, not at all. She’s involved with _him_ , with Team Arrow, but Oliver can’t understand why Ra’s would focus on Felicity.

“Ollie, what’s wrong?” Thea asks.

He’s already dialing Felicity’s number, already knows she won’t answer. “Call Digg,” he tells Thea. “Call Roy.”

“ _You’ve reached Felicity, but -- well, you haven’t reached_ me _because I didn’t answer. But I’m sure it was something unavoidable and not me avoiding you. So… leave a message!_ ” 

Thea touches his arm and Oliver realizes he’s standing stock still at the door, eyes closed, listening to her voice. 

“What’s going on?” Thea asks, and he can tell she’s starting to panic.

So is he.

“Ra’s al Ghul,” Oliver manages. “He has Felicity.”

& & &

Oliver bursts into the foundry, nearly tumbling down the stairs in his panic. He’s got her tracking program up and running in minutes, his hands shaking on the keyboard as he tries desperately to find her.

Diggle arrives, wide-eyed but focused. “What do we know?” he demands.

If Oliver could spare the energy, he’d be grateful for Diggle’s calm. But his entire existence is otherwise occupied with bone-deep anxiety and dread. “He has Felicity, John,” Oliver grits out in a voice barely recognizable as his own. “Ra’s. He--”

Diggle’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing a bit. “We’ll find her.”

Roy runs down the stairs, Thea at his heels. “Where do we start?”

Oliver is supposed to be good in these kinds of situations. He’s supposed to keep his head, to plot his moves methodically the way he learned. The way Slade and Waller and Anatoly each taught him. But he’s shaking and his brain is moving too sluggishly, because all he can think about is every nightmare he’s ever had, every terrible thing he’s ever done, and imagining it’s Felicity each time. “I don’t-- I don’t know.”

But Thea moves past him, tangling her fingers with his briefly. She gets to work on Felicity’s system. Sitting in Felicity’s chair.

His gut twists at the sight and he’s momentarily sure he’s going to vomit on his shoes. He forces himself to move, to change, to ready himself for what comes next. Because the only thing that makes sense to him is that Ra’s took Felicity to ensure Oliver would face him again; to ensure the blood debt would be paid with Oliver’s life. 

He will gladly pay that price to keep her safe -- he just has the worst feeling that he’s missing something, some crucial piece of the puzzle is eluding him. But he pushes his unease and his panic aside and pulls on his leather pants.

Roy and Diggle have followed suit, readying themselves for battle, but everyone stills when a phone rings.

Thea scrambles to pull it from her bag, giving the caller ID a bitter look. She glances at Oliver, her expression pinched, before answering. “What do you want?”

Oliver knows.

It’s Malcolm calling Thea at quarter of four in the morning. 

Oliver _knows_. This -- whatever hell this is -- this is Malcolm’s work. Malcolm would sacrifice any one of them except probably Thea in his megalomaniacal drive to save his own ass. Oliver can’t understand all of it yet, but he sure as hell knows that Felicity is in grave danger because Malcolm is a sociopath. 

This is the price Felicity was so certain that Oliver would have to pay for his choice. 

Felicity is the price.

Oliver’s legs give and he lurches to the side. The legs of the work table screech in protest when he slumps his full weight against it.

Thea is standing now, shaking her head. “No, Malcolm. No! That’s not--”

Diggle’s expression darkens as he looks between the siblings. 

“John,” Oliver gasps. He can’t breathe properly.

“Where?” Thea demands, angry tears tracking down her cheeks. “Where is--?”

Diggle is beside Oliver, one strong arm slung around Oliver’s shoulders to keep him upright. “We’re gonna get her back, Oliver.”

Oliver closes his eyes against Diggle’s words, against the possibility that he’s _wrong_.

The sound of plastic shattering startles Oliver back to reality. Thea’s phone is in pieces near the bed Felicity bought him. 

His sister is crying, looking more angry and more devastated than she’s been in years. Oliver is beyond the ability to form words, frozen in dread. “Ollie,” she says, her voice shaking, “Ra’s al Ghul knows it was me. He knows I killed Sara.”

“It _wasn’t_ you,” Roy protests fiercely. “You would *never*--”

“He knows,” Thea continues, a hint of steel underlying her tone now. “But-- But Malcolm persuaded Ra’s that you had accepted responsibility for it anyway.”

Oliver chokes on the knowledge of what’s coming. Malcolm Merlyn sold him out. He shouldn’t be surprised. He _wouldn’t_ be, except that somehow it’s Felicity at risk. Malcolm didn’t fight for his own daughter or redirect Ra’s al Ghul to Oliver; he just handed over Felicity instead.

Oliver’s last, grasping hope is that Felicity is being used as hostage, as leverage to lure him back out.

Thea swallows hard, her chin tilted up as she continues. “Ra’s took Felicity to--” But she can’t finish.

“The blood debt,” Oliver manages, his tone hollow.

Thea nods. “Ollie--”

“Because _I’m_ not dead.” Oliver pushes himself upright, listing only a little to the side. “I’m _supposed_ to be dead.” 

“Ollie, no,” Thea protests.

“Where are they? Is she--?” He can’t voice this. He can’t let himself even think the words.

“I don’t know if--” Thea stops short. Shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know what’s happened, but he gave me a couple place to check out. To find…”

To find Felicity.

Any icy calmness descends, and Oliver embraces it.

He remembers this feeling, this ruthless, emotionless frame of mind. He remembers being this killer, this weapon forged on an island and honed in Hong Kong and Moscow. He’s surprised by how familiar it is, how easy to fall back into this mindset.

This is the Hood. This man will do whatever it takes.

Diggle says his name, tries to intervene, but Oliver pushes right past and keeps moving

He’s halfway up the stairs when he hears his sister’s tearful apology.

He stops, and there’s just enough humanity left in him to reassure her. “This,” he says, turning to hold her gaze, “is _not_ your fault.”

& & &

It’s just as Oliver remembers.

Different warehouse in the Glades, but the same out-of-place touches -- open-flames in ceremonial barrels providing the only real light.

He moves more quickly than quietly -- they must know he’s coming, and he doesn’t really give a shit about his own safety except to the extent that he can guarantee hers.

He’d persuaded the others to wait, to give him ten minutes. Because his plan is simple -- his life for Felicity’s.

He’ll throw down his weapons, he’ll stand willingly still for the killing blow, he’ll run himself through with a sword the minute she steps out of here, out of danger. Whatever convinces Ra’s to let her go.

He’ll do _anything_.

The moment he stops into the open space, none it it fucking matters anymore. Not a single thing.

There are small groups of assassins in their customary garb near the far wall, but there’s no tension, no sense of expectation. Whatever it is, it’s already happened. Oliver’s steps slow, as if he can stop short of learning what’s happened. As if refusing to acknowledge what’s happened will make it not be true.

But he knows with bone-deep, brutal certainty. On some level, he’s known since Nyssa ended her call. 

In the center of the open floor, Ra’s stands still, one hand on the hilt of his sword. His expression is infuriatingly calm, considering he’s watching Oliver over a small, motionless body clad in a bright purple dress.

Oliver freezes, wanting desperately to believe she’s just unconscious. His mind utterly rejects the sight of her blood on the floor, the stillness of her body.

“NO!” It’s more of a roar than a word.

Ra’s doesn’t flinch. “Our matter is settled,” he announces. “You may take her body for burial.”

_Burial_.

Her _body_.

Oliver is on his knees beside Felicity, staring down in disbelief. Her eyes are closed, her face oddly peaceful. Blood stains most of her shirt, and her chest is not moving.

She’s not breathing.

“DIGG!” he shouts, and he’s moving, pleading with her to live, to breathe, trying chest compressions. When he leans down, desperately trying to breathe air into her lungs, her lips are cool to the touch.

The last of his hope, the last of his soul -- shatters.

There are hands on his shoulders, pulling him away. He lets himself be moved, lets Digg check her over with shaking hands and pleading tones, lets Digg gather her tiny form to his chest and stand.

And then Oliver is moving, an arrow nocked and released out of instinct. Ra’s, who is a master of swords but also an excellent archer, reacts quickly. The arrow leaves only a slice along his arm.

“Oliver,” Roy calls, a split second before tossing a sword to him.

Oliver catches it and advances on Ra’s, who unsheathes his own blade while calling something to his underlings in Arabic. No one interferes.

The fight is long and difficult, but Oliver has something he didn’t on the mountain -- utter disregard for his own survival.

There is nothing left for him, nothing to lose, and he fights with brutal, vindictive abandon. The slices, the wounds, the gasps of the people watching their duel -- none of it registers. 

Oliver senses an opening, a fraction of a second before Ra’s corrects, and he strikes. The blade hits home -- Ra’s falls to one knee, blood pouring from his wound, and then crumples.

Oliver feels… nothing.

Breathing hard, he lets the blade in his hand fall to the cement with a clatter. He turns, his gaze sliding past Roy and Thea’s stunned faces, finding Diggle standing by the door with Felicity’s body cradled in his arms, her blond hair hanging down, glowing in the firelight. It’s devastating.

The last of his icy numbness melts away, leaving Oliver in the clutches of burning, searing grief. A hell of his own making.

He falls to his knees, then to the ground.

& & &

Oliver doesn’t remember much of what followed. Just images that will never leave him. Memories that will haunt him until the sweet release of his own death.

Her pale face slack and unmoving in the firelight, lacking all of the animation that made her Felicity.

Diggle’s tears as he let Oliver take her, cradle her in his arms.

The familiar citrusy smell of her shampoo nearly lost under the sharp, coppery scent of her blood.

Sobs he can’t control, tearing out of him, wracking his body as he curls himself around her in the back of the van. Loud, anguished noises of rage and grief and so much fucking regret.

He wants to tell her that she was right. About Merlyn, about Oliver himself, about the deal with the devil turning him into something he didn’t want to be. Something he hates. Something he can never forgive, and never escape.

Because losing her -- it’s losing his heart, his moral center. It’s losing his _mooring_ to everything that is good and right and peaceful in the world. 

However unwittingly, he’s turned into Merlyn. He’s sacrificed the one person he loves above all others. And, God, he would take it back if he could. He would do anything, give anything to take her place, to die so that she could live. 

But he can’t.

And his grief, it burns away all of the things she’s given him, all of the lessons she’s taught him. 

All that’s left is vengeance.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Really. I'm sorry about that.


End file.
